Page 47 of North Is the Night
My dead guide is actually a handmaid. She comes each morning to deliver me to the weaving room. I’ve decided to give her a name—Kukka. It means flower. The name has helped to disarm some of my feelings of disquiet at always having the dead girl beside me. She’s not a specter of death meant to monitor my every movement; she’s just Kukka.
We arrive each morning to the weaving room, and Loviatar greets me in her cold manner. We’re not always alone. Sometimes the dead help us. One woman in particular seems just as skilled as Loviatar. The weaver specializes in using the metallic threads. She creates the most beautiful cloth of silver, copper, and gold.
True to her threats, Loviatar treats me like a mouse, preferring when I’m neither seen nor heard. But on the second day, she lets me keep a pair of blue wool socks. And on the fifth day, she shows me through the door in the corner of the weaving room. It leads to a large storage room filled with shelves, each stacked with piles of clothes—stout men’s tunics and breeches, wool dresses, peplos-style overdresses, all manner of fur and wool capes.
The goddess tells me I can take my pick of anything in the room. “The dead don’t mind what they wear.”
As much as I love my beautiful golden dress, it’s highly impractical for everyday use. I switch it out for a stout wool dress of bellflower blue. I style a green peplos over it and belt both with a bit of woven cloth. I even find a pair of fingerless wool mittens and an extra pair of socks. The last piece of my new winter outfit is a knit wool hood that can rest around my neck like a scarf while I work.
“Tell me about Tuonela,” I say, daring to speak as we sit side by side at a loom. She’s begun to teach me, now that she feels confident in my knitting. “I feel the seasons changing, but there is no sun or moon. Is it autumn now? Will winter come soon?”
“Seasons are seasons everywhere,” the witch replies. “Not too tight,” she warns, her fingers brushing over mine as she checks my work.
“Where do the animals come from?” I ask, passing her the weft through the warps. “They’re alive, too, right? The dogs, the chickens, the pigs, the ravens...”
Loviatar makes no response.
“And the food... are there farms in Tuonela? How do plants grow? Is it all magic? The stories say Tuonela is a vast land of mountains and meadows and great palaces. Can I see it—”
“Focus, little mouse,” the witch chastises.
I try to bite my tongue, but I have so many questions. Jaako can’t answer me the way Loviatar can. “What is your favorite thing about Tuonela?” I say, handing her the batten.
“The silence,” she says, tapping the weave tight.
I smirk. “Yes, silence must be a rare gift in a realm where the dead sleep eternal.”
“Do you have any family, little mouse?”
My smile falls as I try to stop my mind from conjuring an image of my parents and my young brothers. It’s too painful to think of them. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Do you have any sisters?”
I close my eyes, thinking of Siiri. “Yes.”
“Then you know what it means to crave silence,” the witch retorts.
I can’t help but smile again. It’s true, there have been many moments where I’ve wanted to stuff Siiri’s mouth with socks just to hear myself think. “Tell me about your sisters.”
“You want a fond tale of sisterly affection,” she replies, her rune-marked fingers brushing over the warps. “But my sisters and I are witches, Aina. We were made by the All-Mother to fulfill a divine purpose. With our power comes great suffering and even greater pain. Mortals fear us, for they fear death. But they are foolish to do so. Like all the dead now resting here, you will soon learn the greatest truth in life.”
I glance her way. “And what truth is that?”
She turns her face. Her striking eyes gleam in the candlelight. “That there is power to be found in embracing death. Do not run from it, little mouse. Do not hide. Meet it head on. Treat it as your equal, and it will see you as such.”
I huff a little laugh. There is no mirth in the sound. “Clearly, you haven’t heard the tale of my capture. Did Kalma not tell you?”
“Kalma does not speak,” Loviatar replies.
“Why can’t she speak—”
“I said she doesn’t speak,” the witch corrects. “There’s a difference, little mouse.”
We’re quiet for a moment, our hands working in rhythm together on the loom.
“Tell me.” Her voice is soft.
I swallow the emotion thick in my throat. “Kalma appeared to us at the lakeshore,” I begin. “It was nearing sunset. She had her eyes set on Siiri.”
